


One Last Race

by crowdedangels



Series: August [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 02:56:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11888478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdedangels/pseuds/crowdedangels
Summary: He drove through the night; windows down, radio up, bad gas station coffee keeping him alert for the 18hr journey. The roar of passing motorbikes would wake him from his daydreams and autopilot driving.





	One Last Race

He left the office, got into his truck and just drove.

Retired again.

He fully expected to be about as retired as the last time – therefore still essentially 'on call', but he was okay with that. The occasional ride out to the Mountain suited and booted and then back to the cabin, or wherever the future held. He still wanted to be able dip his toe in the Programme, maybe even the event horizon, every now and again. But not for at least the next three weeks, he had little-to-no plans for the next three whole weeks.

It was somewhere outside of Halfway, Maryland before he changed out of his Dress Blues and into jeans and a tee. He liked stopping there on the journey even though it definitely wasn't halfway between DC and Minnesota, it seemed like a sign.

He drove through the night; windows down, radio up, bad gas station coffee keeping him alert for the eighteen hour journey. The roar of passing motorbikes would wake him from his daydreams and autopilot driving.

Finally, having made good time, he pulled into the gravel driveway of the cabin, killed the engine and smiled.

“Take the scenic route?”

His smile turned to a grin, knowing full well Sam had only passed him about an hour previously and very likely had not kept to the speed limit on her Indian.

She was leant against the doorway to the porch in her leathers and (his) faded Cubs tee. She'd brushed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to shake the helmet impression but just helped making it windswept and wanton.

He pulled his bag from the back, dumped it at her feet and kissed the smirk off her face.

“Happy retirement.”

“Happy three week leave.”

“Oh, it will be.”

 

 


End file.
